


Plus Des Petits Morts (aka #RevengeOfFellatioFic)

by MaddyHughes



Series: FellatioFic [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Handcuffs, Junk Food - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Ridiculously Phallic, The Princess Bride References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: Hannibal tries to determine what Will Graham has had for lunch...via the medium of oral sex.A sequel toLes Petits Morts. But you can read it by itself if you want.Written for @HannibalCreativ's #ReleaseTheCrakin challenge.





	Plus Des Petits Morts (aka #RevengeOfFellatioFic)

In the evening, Hannibal has an intuition. It’s not a scent, not even a word spoken, but a feeling.

‘What have you been eating?’ he asks Will.

Will looks up, squinting, from where he is brushing a dog in the corner (he’s put down a cloth over the carpet—he has no desire to repeat what happened to him the last time he forgot to protect the home furnishings, thankyouverymuch).

‘What have I been eating?’ He thinks carefully. ‘Something involving tongues, coconut milk, and a rare spice that’s only grown on the peak of a single mountain in Andalucía. You cooked it. I can’t remember the name.’

‘No,’ Hannibal says. ‘I mean: what did you eat at lunchtime, when you went out?’

‘Nothing,’ Will lies. ‘Wasn’t hungry.’

Hannibal gazes at him, with that inscrutable face. Will doesn’t need his empathic gift to read what it means.

It means trouble.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Hannibal says.

‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.’ Will’s brushed his teeth three times. Eaten half a tube of breath mints. And taken a shower. It’s all long digested by now. Whatever Hannibal suspects, he’ll never be able to prove.

‘Haven’t we had this conversation about putting junk food in your body?’ Hannibal walks, quite calmly, towards him. ‘I thought you’d learned your lesson.’

‘Not this time, you don’t,’ says Will, jumping up and looking for a syringe in Hannibal’s hand.

There isn’t one. Instead, it’s a pair of handcuffs.

Will turns and tries to run, but the dog gets in the way and within an instant, his left wrist is cuffed to the radiator. He looks to man’s best friend to help, but man’s best friend is used to this sort of thing between them by now and wanders off to look in its dish for any leftover tongues Hannibal might have dropped in it by mistake.

‘What do you have planned for me this time?’ Will asks, with a certain weariness.

And also a certain amount of arousal. Because the last time they had this ‘conversation’—about eating Oreos in bed, that time—Hannibal tried to kill Will with blow jobs.

And though mostly that meant that Will couldn’t walk or pee straight for a week afterwards…it was also, in a perverse and painful way, very sexy.

‘What did you eat at lunchtime?’ Hannibal asks again instead of answering.

‘Nothing. I said: I wasn’t hungry.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘What if I am?’

‘Lying is very rude, Will.’

Will merely raises his eyebrows. If he’s going to die, he’s going to die, and he might as well provoke Hannibal so that it’s over with quickly.

Hannibal kneels in front of him and reaches for his belt buckle.

‘Are you going to kill me with blow jobs again?’ asks Will incredulously. ‘It didn’t work the last time.’

‘It nearly did,’ Hannibal points out, as he unfastens Will’s trousers.

‘The definition of insanity is performing the same act but expecting it to have a different outcome,’ Will points out, in return.

But he can’t deny that the mere fact of Hannibal starting to undress him is having its effect.

Hannibal smiles, and makes a sound of approval in his throat as he pulls down Will’s underwear and sees his arousal.

‘Anyone would think that you liked being killed with fellatio,’ the doctor comments.

‘I liked the fellatio part,’ Will says. He still has one arm free; he could push Hannibal aside, if he wanted. Sock him in the jaw. Poke him in the eye.

But…he’s curious.

It is, he will admit, potentially a fatal flaw.

Hannibal isn’t messing around. He takes Will’s cock in his hand and licks around the crown with flat, wet tongue.

‘This is quick,’ comments Will, a little breathless. Because Hannibal’s tongue is amazing. ‘Aren’t you going to torture me?’

Hannibal shakes his head. Because he’s got the tip of Will’s dick in his mouth already, sucking, this means that Will’s penis moves back and forth with his answer, and his tongue drags across the crown of Will’s cock. It feels pretty good.

‘What are you going to do?’ asks Will suspiciously.

He removes Will’s penis from his mouth, but as he speaks, he stays close enough so that the words send puffs of cool air onto the head of Will’s heated, wet flesh.

‘I’m going to suck you and lick you until you come in my mouth,’ he states, with that accent of his, with that low, seductive voice, the same mouth he uses to spout all those mind-twisting metaphors, the same lips and teeth and tongue he uses to eat human flesh, and the words sound so proper and filthy that Will moans a little and arches his hips.

With surprising accommodation, Hannibal takes him back into his mouth. And he doesn’t tease, he doesn’t try to drive Will crazy: he sucks, hard enough to make hollows underneath those cheekbones, hard enough to purse out those seductive lips, and plays his tongue around Will’s cock.

Hannibal’s mouth is warm and tight. Will tilts his head back as Hannibal finds a rhythm: not slow, not fast, less rapid than his heartbeat, quicker than his breathing, but luxurious, thorough, wholly pleasurable. Sometimes Hannibal draws out sex for as long as possible; sometimes he interrupts it, purposely, to heighten the pleasure when they start again.

He’s not doing either of those. Instead, he’s giving Will a perfectly ordinary blow job. Well: as perfectly ordinary a blow job as Hannibal Lecter ever gives, which is by any standards a fucking good perfectly ordinary blow job.

Why the handcuffs, then?

Does Will even care about the handcuffs, when Hannibal is doing this to him?

He pulls in a long, shuddering breath, and lets his uncuffed right hand settle in Hannibal’s hair as Hannibal takes him deep, deep enough so Will moans and his eyes roll back with pleasure.

For a moment or two he can’t think at all, as Hannibal swallows him, and then he comes back up to lick around the head of his cock, twirling and swirling in preparation for taking him deep again, and Will suddenly understands.

‘You want me to come,’ he manages to say, before Hannibal sucks him in hard again, right to the root, his cock nudging the back of Hannibal’s throat and going right down, lips tight around the base, and Will groans loudly and fists his hand in Hannibal’s hair.

‘Mmm,’ says Hannibal, merely, sliding up and doing it all over again.

And again.

And again.

And Will doesn’t finish his thought, doesn’t say why Hannibal wants him to come, can’t articulate any of that even if he needed to, because this man in his three-piece suit, silk tie and pocket handkerchief, this cannibal killer, kneeling before him, sucking his dick like that, is too good for words. For rational thought.

And Hannibal is driving him towards orgasm, bobbing his perfect head up and down, mouth warm and wet and so fucking talented, and Will knows he should resist—somehow—should foil this man’s design.

But he can’t. Hannibal curls his fingers around Will’s balls and tugs at them, rolls them in his hand like ripe fruits, and Will feels them tighten.

He’s going to come. Which is exactly what Hannibal wants, it’s why he’s being so damn efficient, and…

‘Aagh,’ he chokes, and pulls Hannibal’s hair hard enough to hurt, and thrusts his hips forward towards Hannibal’s mouth, shouting ‘Fuck!’

He tries to come in the back of Hannibal’s throat, but Hannibal pulls his head back at the last minute, so the semen lands on his tongue.

Of course, Hannibal pulls away, sucking up every last drop.

Of course, Hannibal rolls it on his tongue, in his mouth, like a fine wine.

And of course, Hannibal winces as he swallows.

‘Hot dogs?’ Hannibal says. ‘You’ve been eating _hot dogs_?’

Will is a little dizzy. He lets his hand drop from Hannibal’s hair, and rest on his chained wrist.

‘I can’t believe,’ he pants, ‘that you did all that,’ he pants, ‘just to taste my lunch in my jizz.’

‘I don’t believe you ate a hot dog,’ says Hannibal. ‘Surely even the name is offensive to you?’

‘Sometimes, you know, Hannibal, I just want to eat normal food.’

‘But…’ Hannibal stops. He tilts his head, and looks at Will with that penetrating maroon gaze. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘Because,’ says Will, ‘I know something you don’t know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You shouldn’t have used my handcuffs.’

And in an instant, a quick-reacting instant which is worthy of even Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham has unfastened the cuff from his own left wrist, and snapped it around Hannibal’s right.

Hannibal Lecter is rarely surprised; his mind spools forward, always, to anticipate every possible outcome of every situation. But now: he’s surprised.

‘Will,’ he says, his voice edged with danger, and possibly a little arousal, ‘what are you doing?’

Will doesn’t answer. He takes advantage of Hannibal’s surprise to pull up his own pants, stride across the room, take another set of handcuffs from a drawer, and come back to Hannibal. Careful to stay away from the range of Hannibal’s teeth, he leverages his other wrist into a cuff, which he also attaches to the radiator.

‘You’re playing a very dangerous game,’ says Hannibal, with deceptive calm.

‘Dangerous games are the best kind, you keep telling me.’ Will, free as a bird, takes his car keys out of his pocket and tosses them in the air. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Dr Lecter. Spend a bit of time in your memory palace. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

It is, however, more like forty-five minutes before he comes back, and when he does, the scent precedes him. Vegetable oil, cornmeal, nitrates, artificial smoke.

Will’s carrying a white paper bag, spotted with grease. He drags a chair across the room, sets it in front of Hannibal, out of reach of his legs or teeth, and sits in it.

‘You were wrong,’ he tells Hannibal. ‘I didn’t have a hot dog for lunch. I went to the state fair. And I had a corn dog.’

He takes a corn dog out of the bag and shows it to Hannibal.

‘A deep-fried hot dog in batter,’ Hannibal says. ‘On a stick.’

‘Yup. Delicious.’

Keeping his gaze unwaveringly on Hannibal’s, Will holds the corn dog up to his lips. The scent is stronger now: almost overwhelming to Hannibal’s sensitive nose.

Deliberately, Will licks around the top of the corn dog with a flat, wet tongue.

‘Mmm,’ he says, and slowly slides the sausage into his mouth.

‘Will,’ says Hannibal. ‘Are you fellating that junk food?’

‘Actually, it’s street food,’ corrects Will. ‘And it’s very on-trend.’

He sucks on the corn dog. In, and out. Nice and slow. The grease slicks his lips.

Against his inclinations, Hannibal finds himself growing hard.

‘How does it make you feel?’ asks Will, pausing in his corn dog oral sex.

‘How does it make _you_ feel?’ Hannibal counters. ‘Turning the tables on me so efficiently?’

‘It feels fucking great,’ says Will, and he deep-throats the corn dog, making a gagging sound in his throat which actually makes Hannibal moan.

Then he takes the corn dog out of his mouth, and looking straight into Hannibal’s eyes, he chomps the tip off.

Chews, and swallows. 

You don’t have to be Freud to understand the meaning of that one.

‘I’m going to taste like this for _days_ , Doctor Lecter,’ says Will. And slowly, deliberately, he eats that entire corn dog right in front of Hannibal’s face. Savouring every crunch and squish, grittiness of corn meal, soft give of sausage. Salt and grease and pork, all the way down to the stick.

Interestingly, possibly for both of them, Hannibal’s erection does not subside in the slightest. It’s clearly visible in the crotch of his plaid trousers.

'I think you like it,' says Will, with some surprise.

Will tosses the stick aside. He keeps the paper bag in his hand, though. Slowly, he gets off the chair and kneels in front of Hannibal Lecter. He sets the bag on the floor and unfastens Hannibal’s belt, and unzips his trousers. He reaches inside Hannibal’s fine-cotton boxers (they’ve been ironed) and frees his dick, which is of impressive proportions and fully erect.

‘Do you want me to suck _you_ now, Doctor?’ asks Will, an expression of pure malice on his face.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want me to suck you and lick you, until you come in my mouth?’ he asks, deliberately echoing Hannibal’s words. ‘My _dirty_ mouth? My mouth that’s eaten…that?’

Hannibal’s answer is low, throaty, like a confession of a guilty man.

‘Yes.’

Because Hannibal wants that. The dirt, and the guilt, and the grease, and the cheap and tawdry tinny music of the state fair. The sweat and furtive pleasures, undisguisedly carnal.

He wants the innocent smile of the boy that Will once was, eyes shining from the lights on the ferris wheel. The way Will pretended to care about shooting tin ducks, while his eyes and attention were drawn to the freak show tent.

He wants the way Will—after everything, all the blood and conversations, the jail cell and the hospital bed, the ear in his throat and the knife in his belly—still asserts his own independence and personhood. The power Will Graham has over Hannibal, even now.

Even more so, now that they love each other.

‘Yes,’ says Hannibal, deep in his throat where he still can taste Will’s ejaculate, and the evidence of Will’s power. Hannibal's own cock throbbing with need.

Will smiles.

‘Then eat this,’ he says, and pulls another corn dog from the bag.

And Hannibal—bound, desperate, in thrall and hungry—opens his mouth.


End file.
